


Cops & Robbers

by Kymopoleia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Black-Red Vacillation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:08:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymopoleia/pseuds/Kymopoleia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The love you feel for the... mutant... is almost as criminal as the fact that he exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song "Cops and Robbers" by Hoosiers!

Your name is Gamzee Makara and you are standing, feet apart and shoulders squared. Your head is down turned, and in your hand you are clutching a club that is dripping an array of shades, mostly lime and cerulean and maroon. _What an odd place_ , you think, to have such a harem. The maroons fucked, the ceruleans paid, and the limes ran the place.

Luckily, there are some like you who know **just** how to take care of problems.

To your right and slightly behind is the descendant of Neophyte Redglare, following in her footsteps to become the newest, and brightest, Legislacerator. She has her dragon-headed cane in one hand, and a noose in the other.

You cannot imagine a better place to be than here. The scent of blood is strong enough to make a wriggler sick, but is perfect for you.

You raise one foot, sheathed as it is in a steel-toed boot, and set it down in a new place, walking towards a certain kill.

The only one left alive.

He is struggling for breath, still clad in nothing but a now bloodstained robe and bedazzled shorts. His horns are hidden in the mane of sex hair, and you don't wonder what they look like. All you want is his blood.

Grabbing hold of his hair, you yank his head to the side and, dropping your club, hold onto his shoulder with your right hand. You don't bother with chucklevoodoos as you bury your teeth, all of them, in the maroon fucker's neck. He claws at you, gasping wetly. The paint around your lips smears onto his neck, and you don't care.

Paint is replaceable. A kill is not. Each one is special, unique.

Worth savoring.

That is what your ancestor, the Grand Highblood, taught you.

He taught you other things as well, but you suppose those things don't really matter. Only this.

You finish a moment later, the offending red blood dripping from your lips and down your chin. You shove the body away from you with a grin on your face. Grabbing your club, standing, and going back to your original place takes no longer than a few seconds.

"Your turn, Rezi." You growl, and she cackles back.

The friendship you two share is a strange one, but one to be feared.

Because when the descendant of the Empress's moirail makes friends with a giver of laws,

You know nothing good will come of it.

Unless your name is Karkat Vantas.


	2. Chapter 2

And your name is Karkat Vantas. Duh. Why would it be anything else?

You are currently pretending to hide behind a door in the most dangerous fucking place you could ever be, a metal frying pan clutched in your hands. You are waiting for the perfect moment to strike the perfect one...

And...

That...

Time...

Is...

NOW.

The door to the bedroom opens, and you swing the pan as if your life depends on i- Oh wait, it does.

But a clawed hand grabs it, stops it before it moves any further than a few inches. Your eyes travel from the hand, up the silky purple and indigo and black fabric to the face of the troll who owns it.

He is grinning, eyes alight from the remains of a blood-high. The purple ringing his pupils is uncomfortably vivid, and his blood and paint stained face is nearing yours.

"I'm home, motherfucker." He hisses.

You grit your teeth as you smile back. "Welcome home, _honey_." You hiss.

He forces the pan to drop, and mashes his face against yours forcefully.

A small noise escapes you, and your hands immediately go up to wrap around his neck, knotting in his curly, curly black hair.

You whimper, he moans. You bite his lip, he groans. His arms go down to wrap around your waist tightly, possessively.

You're being pushed against a nearby wall.

The zippers on back of his shirt and vest are being tugged down by fumbling, blind hands.

Blind because you are going against what you were meant to do, and are in a quadrant,

Or possibly two,

With the troll who is meant to cull you.

Of course, he doesn't know that yet.

All he knows is that you're his, you are the absolute best of fucks, and that you are a mutant.

All you know is that if you're caught, and if he is ordered to cull you, he won't hesitate.

Because he loves you as much as he hates you.

Pities you as much as he despises.

Is infatuated with as much as he is irritated by.

You are his one true partner, his one polar opposite.

He can't help but be drawn to you, as you are to him.

But oh, you can't wait to see his face when he learns.

Learns of the tricks you played.

Learns of the lies you've told.

It'll break his heart, no doubt, but the anger he'll feel will be delicious.

Because you love him as much as he hates you.

Hates as much as he loves.

Pity and Rivalry are synonyms for how you feel.

And here, humping blindly and fucking roughly,

Screaming and moaning and clawing and kissing gently,

You find yourself.

Well, half of yourself.

The other half is, as it always has been, at the temple.

The temple you are building to revive a movement killed by no other than your lover's ancestor.

After a heated few rounds of sex, he is starting to drift into sleep, and you are just getting started.

Standing and getting dressed, you hear a mumbled sentence from the bed, and bed to kiss his head.

"Good night, sweetheart, bad night."

He nods, and you leave the tower through the window.

What better exit, considering you're the villain of a dark prince's noble tale?


End file.
